


Truth is like blood underneath your fingernails

by fandammit



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Written prior to the end of season 3, so a little AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7310854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandammit/pseuds/fandammit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Truth or dare,” he says, barely loud enough to hear.</p>
<p>She exhales, long and slow, before replying.</p>
<p>“Truth.”</p>
<p>She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, sees the slight wave of shock wash over his expression. Briefly she wonders what it is he was going to dare her to do, wonders if she would’ve done it. But she’s seen the things her hands have dared to do. Figures she owes him a few truths ripped out of her in some sort of penitence.<br/>---------<br/>Abby and Marcus learn to accept what they've done to one another and to themselves. Sequel to "Simple in the Moonlight."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Touch

Abby never touches him any more. **  
**

It’s a jarring thought that crops up into his mind one evening as he walks next to her, suddenly recognizing the distance she seems intent on keeping between the two of them.

At first, he wants to write it off, tries to tell himself that he’s imagining things. But it burrows into his mind and he can’t help but mentally run through a list of all the moments he’s had with her since the end of ALIE all those weeks ago.

He realizes that where she might have once brushed her hand down his arm in comfort or knocked her shoulder into his in light teasing, now there is only empty space; where she once reached out freely to run her hands through the ends of his curling hair or grazed her hand over his beard, there is now only the vibrations of want and ghosts of touch. She no longer leans into him as they discuss the running of Arkadia, never brushes her hands against his as they walk together.

All her movements carry a rigid, invisible wall of her own making; a carefully constructed distance where closeness and warmth used to be.

* * *

He tries to remember the last time she willingly reached out for him, realizes that it was right after their triumph over ALIE and Jaha. Right after the end of the City of Light.

There’d been one, pure moment between the two of them. Uncomplicated, unhurried, and honest.

“Marcus,” she’d said, reaching for him, her words choked and dry. His name an invocation and a hymn and a benediction wrapped in one.  

Her arms had wrapped around him, her hands had tangled themselves in his hair.

He’d frozen then, an action he replays in his mind over and over again and hates himself for; wishes that he could have just lost himself in the feel of her arms and hands and breath against his neck. But then - for one, small, hateful moment - all he could think of were tender hugs and fierce kisses that were nothing more than artifice and manipulation.

He’d shaken off the memory, though, managed to spur his arms to wrap themselves around her. Buried himself in the scent of her hair and the slope of her neck.

She’d felt his hesitation, though. Had unwrapped her arms from around him, trailed her hands down his forearms, stopped her fingertips at the angry scars on his wrists.

She’d taken in a shuddering breath; he’d felt the hot press of tears washing the wounds.

He’d wrapped her hands in his own, kissed each fingertip. Raised his hands to cup her face and rested his forehead on hers.

“It wasn’t you, it wasn’t you, it wasn’t you,” he’d whispered, again and again. Breathed it quietly in between soft kisses on her face. Kissed each tear that fell and looked her in the eyes until she’d nodded at him and closed her eyes.

She’d pressed her hands against his and had taken a quavering breath, then. Had reached up on her tiptoes and pressed a tender kiss to his lips.

He’d thought it was acceptance and hope and a new beginning.

Now -

Now, he wonders if it was goodbye.

* * *

 

He still walks her to her room every night.   
  
It’s comforting to him that at least some habits have survived what they’ve gone through. Even though they never linger by the door. Even though there’s a filter of grief and guilt that covers all her expressions.

She puts her hand on the doorknob and tilts her head.   
  
“Good night, Marcus.”  
  
She says it quietly.  
  
Everything about her is quiet, now, with him.

* * *

One night, he walks into medical and finds her asleep at her desk.

There’s an awkward bent to her neck that he knows will pain her when she wakes up. Her features are pinched and tense, her jaw clenching and teeth gritting painfully in her sleep. Just as he’s about to reach out and shake her gently awake, she sits up quickly, breathing quickly, almost painfully.

“Abby,” he calls out, soft and urgent. He settles a hand on her shoulder.

“Abby, it’s ok. It’s just a dream.”

She looks up at him blearily, panic still lining her pupils. 

He crouches down, looks at her directly, drops his voice to a lower, soothing tone. 

“Shh, it’s ok, Abby. You’re ok.” 

She reaches out and cups his face in her hands. Brushes her fingers over his cheekbones, leans forward to rest her forehead on his, and breathes in deeply. He draws in a stuttering breath, can’t believe the longing in her heart. Feels the yearning pull at every nerve and tendon and muscle in his body at the feel of her hands on him. 

He rests his hands on her shoulders and breaths in deeply, encourages her to breath in slowly in time with him. 

Eventually, her breathing slows and her eyes clear. She looks at him, her eyes soft and affectionate for one, long, glorious moment. 

Then - 

Her eyes cloud with guilt and sadness, then shutter closed, away from him. She draws back quickly and clenches her jaw tightly for a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, not meeting his eyes.  

He swallows thickly. 

“It’s ok, Abby.” 

He reaches out to rest a hand on her shoulder. Sees her flinch away from his touch as he does. 

He pretends not to notice. Takes a deep breath instead and clears his throat. 

“C’mon, let’s get you to a proper bed.” 

The walk back to her room is quiet; heavy and acrid in a way he doesn’t recognize. 

He walks slowly to his own room; closes the door quietly and leans against it, his head resting against his forearm. 

He replays her flinching away from his touch over and over again. Can’t help the bitter pain that pumps through his veins at the thought. 

He knows physiologically and literally it can’t be true. Knows that it’s the worst kind of melodramatic hyperbole.

But -

In that moment, he swears it hurts more than the feel of metal piercing through skin and muscle and bone.

* * *

“She loves you, Kane. Still.”

He tears his eyes away from Abby and turns to look at Octavia. Doesn’t bother denying that he wonders, often; doesn’t try to posit that maybe she never did. The first, he knows, would be a waste of time; the second, too painful to mull over for too long.

Instead he tries to decide on what expression to fix on his face - doubt or hope or hopelessness. Realizes that his features must have flashed through all three to engender the look of fierce sympathy on Octavia’s face.

“What makes you say that?” He says carefully, not wanting to give away how eager he feels, how desperate he knows he is.

“Because it’s true,” she says simply, as though it were the easiest, most obvious thing in the world. She glances at him and leans back on her heels, rests her forearms on the top of her thighs before continuing. “If Clarke isn’t in camp, she looks for you first every time she enters a room. She always manages to be aware of you no matter what she’s doing. There’s always a softness to her expression whenever she thinks you’re not looking.” She hesitates, then continues on, quieter than before. “Last month, when that boar tore up your leg?”

He nods. His leg had been a mess of mangled flesh and blood. The trek back to camp had been excruciating - he’d only just managed to make it to the gates of Arkadia slumped between Harper and Octavia before he’d passed out.

“Abby couldn’t stitch you up. It looked worst than it was - all bloody and torn up - but she could have easily fixed it. But she had to hand it off to Jackson, because her hands were shaking too much. And her face - when she saw you unconscious between the two of us and when she was looking at you on that table…”

She looks at him, stormy and sad.

“It was terror. The kind you only feel when you really love someone. When you realize you don’t want to live in a world without them.”

Her expression shifts then, becomes something plaintive and ferocious and unshakable all at once.

“She loves you. Don’t doubt that.”

He meets her gaze, sees the sincerity and resolve, and nods.

After a quiet moment, he hears her sigh.

“I miss him, Kane.”

He looks over at her, clenches his jaw tightly at the sight of her small, sad features.

“I know, Octavia. I’m sorry.”

She nods and tips back, sits on the ground with her arms wrapped around her knees. He hesitates for a moment, then carefully drapes his arm around her shoulders. She leans into him, rests her head on his shoulder and draws in a shuddering breath.

After a long moment, she sniffs and lifts her head from his shoulder, levels a serious stare at him.

“Don’t give up, ok? It’s worth fighting for.”

He nods at her, equally serious and sincere, then smiles.

“Thank you, Octavia. This…you’ve…just…thank you.”

She nods, then manages to scrounge up a small grin.

“See?” She says softly. “There’s a reason I’m your favorite.”

* * *

Clarke splits her time between Polis and Arkadia. Given the duties and responsibilities of being the Fleimkepa to the new Heda, he’s somewhat surprised that she manages to make such frequent treks out to Arkadia.

He’s glad for it though - Abby never smiles as much as when Clarke is around. There’s a relaxation to her movements and a contentment to her expression that makes his heart swell.

It’s also given him a chance to get to know Clarke better. To his great surprise, she comes to him often - for political advice, to hear his thoughts on matters of governance, to debate theories of government and policy.

The two of them are wrapping up a session on trade agreements and mapping out new trade routes on the clear board in front of him when Abby breezes into the room, disheveled from exhaustion but somehow glowing with triumph and joy.

“It worked!” She says gleefully, holding up a small bottle in her hands. “The vaccine works!” 

“Mom, that’s great!” Clarke replies, a smile splitting her features. 

Marcus smiles at her, finds himself almost breathless when she beams back at him.

She reaches out as though to grab his hand or rest a hand on his shoulder or -

He’ll never know.

Her hand falters halfway, settles itself against her side instead. He tries to hide the disappointment on his face; doesn’t think he’s very successful.

Suddenly, it’s as though all her weariness has caught up with her at once. She gives them both a tired smile.

“I’m going to take about a three hour nap.” She turns to Clarke and reaches out to squeeze her hand. “I’ll see you at dinner, right?” 

Clarke smiles at her and nods. Abby gives them both one last look before walking briskly out of the room.

He stares at the space where she just once was, feels his fingers twitch at the her phantom touch.

After a moment, he turns to Clarke, sees her studying him carefully.

He smiles at her.

“I knew your mom would get it eventually. It’ll be good to be protected against flu season this winter.” 

She nods, the thoughtful look still on her face. She walks up to the map and traces the routes up to Polis with her eyes.

Finally, she turns to him.

“Octavia told me that you took the chip to save mom’s life.” 

There’s a guarded wariness to her question; he isn’t sure if it’s because she’s not quite sure to believe the action or the reason behind it.

He says nothing to explain himself. Simply looks directly at her and nods.

Her expression turns appraising.

“That - ah - that must have been a difficult choice.” 

He crosses his arms in front of him, shrugs. Repeats the words he remembers saying to her mother in what almost feels like a lifetime ago.

“It was no choice at all. It’s your mom’s life over mine. Every time.” 

There’s a brief flicker of surprise that’s replaced by something he tries - and fails - not to think too deeply about. Something that looks vaguely like approval and faith and fondness wrapped into one.

After a long moment, she gives him a small smile.  

“I’m glad she has you.” 

He nods at her.

“Always.”


	2. Dreams

She dreams of him often, now.

Vivid, detailed things that explode with light and color and pain.

In some, she watches that hateful version of herself idly standing by as he is nailed to the cross. She screams and cries and tries to reach out, shake herself out of it. Is forced to watch in agony as he writhes and twists in pain at each hammer blow through his wrists.

In others, she inflicts tortures on him that are somehow more terrifying than the reality of it all. In one, she piles dry wood at his feet; watches calmly as the fire licks up his legs, stands back as his flesh blisters and burns and pops. In another, she mechanically drags a slim, serrated edge over and over in long lines across his body. Over and over again until he’s more shredded flesh and blood than man.

In each, he begs and pleads with her to wake up. Rubs his skin raw against his bonds, breaks fingers and opens wounds in increasingly desperate attempts to reach out to her. He asks her over and over again to remember him.

In each, she never does.

Instead, she wakes up shaking and nauseated; the sound of his screams in her ears, the image of him staring at her in anguish and betrayal burned onto the insides of her eyelids.

* * *

 

She dreams of him in other ways, too.

Dreams that leave her breathless and aching and heavy with desire: where she threads her hands through his hair, kisses the slope of his neck and the hollow behind his ear; where she runs her fingernails down the edges of his spine and grins against his lips when he shivers.

Dreams where ALIE never existed at all: where her hands and mouth and tongue never became treacherous, traitorous things; where she arches against him and sighs into his mouth without motive or deception.

Dreams where she can love him without hating herself for it.

She always wakes from these roiling with want and weighted down by guilt. Feels wrung out and twisted in a way that steals sleep from her for the rest of the night.

Wonders how it is that these dreams manage to hurt worse than the ones that are filled with torture and blood and agony.

* * *

He has dreams of his own, she knows.

The way back to Arkadia had been a journey measured out in weeks - more meandering and exploration than hard marching. A leisurely pace and carefree attitude that was as foreign as it was pleasurable. 

The nights had been warm enough to sleep outside, well away from the fire. She had spent her nights curled up next to Clarke, who’d manage a peaceful sleep that she was both glad for and envious of.    

She’d lie down and wait for a quiet in her brain that she knew couldn’t come, would end up getting up an hour later to wander aimlessly around whatever campground they’d erected that day. 

One night, she’d heard Marcus cry out in the dark - a sound of misery that had drug its way down her spine and clogged her throat with fear. She broke into a run, always aware of exactly where he laid down every night. 

His body had been twisted in pain, face contorted in sweat stained agony. 

She’d reached forward to brush back his damp hair and heard him murmuring again and again - 

“Abby, please wake up. Abby, please wake up.” 

She’d recoiled, then. Felt a burning in her palms and in her wrists that seemed the worst kind of phantom sympathy pain. 

She’d choked back a sob, willfully ignored the steady thump of shame from her heart; wanted to press the insides of her hands against his cheeks but couldn’t bear to touch him again with hands that had already been responsible for so much violence.  

Instead, she leaned in and forced herself to say his name out loud; watched as he’d jolted out of his dream. He’d looked up at her with fear and frenzy that had quickly melted into grateful relief. 

“It was only a dream,” he’d said over and over again, wrapping his arms around her tightly. Words meant to comfort her. Words meant to calm the panic she knew lined the pupils of her eyes. 

Words that were an unbearable falsehood. 

* * *

At night, Arkadia is quiet. 

She wanders the halls sometimes, when dreams and half-memories make sleep impossible; thinks of ghosts and haunted places - the eerie stories that she had loved so much as a child. 

She brushes them aside as she follows the twists and turns of Arkadia’s walls. 

She’s the only ghost haunting these halls. 

* * *

He lingers by the door of her room one night after walking her from medical. 

She looks up to see that a lock of hair has fallen in his face, half covering his eye; he doesn’t seem to notice.

Idly and unbidden, a feeling of longing rises within her. She finds herself missing the feel of his hair tangled in her hands. As though it were something she had always done. As though it’s something that she still deserves.

She wants desperately to reach out and brush the wayward lock back carefully, settle it gracefully into his hair.

She doesn’t, though her fingertips twitch at the thought; flexes her hand instead and rests them on the doorknob behind her. 

“Good night, Marcus,” she says, and she’s proud of the way she keeps the longing out of her voice. 

“Good night, Abby.” 

He doesn’t keep it out of his. 

* * *

She and Raven are sitting in the cafeteria having a drink when Marcus comes in to talk to one of the guards at the bar. She tracks him with his eyes, can’t help but soften the lines of her posture at the sight of him.

She hears Raven sigh quietly; flicks her eyes away from Marcus and over to her. Finds Raven staring at her intently before she leans back.

“You know, when I first met Clarke, I told her that I’d never seen anyone love someone the way you love her.”

She nods.

Raven tilts her head towards the place where Marcus is standing, then -

“That’s the way that he loves you.”

She starts, resists the urge to look around as though Raven is revealing _her_ darkest secret. Instead, she lowers her eyes and clears her throat.

“You can’t know that.”

She hears, rather than sees the roll of Raven’s eyes.

“Abby, anyone with eyes knows that.”

She sighs. Twists her hands in her lap and looks away from the discerning tilt of Raven’s expression.

“Raven. It’s…it’s complicated.”

Raven shakes her head.

“It’s not.”  

Abby looks at her.

“Ok, it’s not simple. But. It wasn’t you.”

She hates that. All these tiresome arguments about who she is and isn’t. What she did and didn’t do.

What she does know is this: it was her voice that ordered him to the cross, her hands that stayed still as they nailed him to it, her head that turned away from his screams of agony. Whether or not it was real is a moot question, in her opinion. The scars on his wrist are real. The ache in his joints is real.

That she was the face that twisted his love into a weapon, turned the kindness in his heart into pain is real. A cold, unflinching truth she can’t escape.

She does not say this to Raven, though. She just sighs and wraps her arms around herself.

“It was me, Raven.”

Raven stares at her, still and focused. Then she rolls up the sleeves of jacket, thrusts her arms in Abby’s direction. Brandishes the raised, ugly lines up her wrists like a battle ax.

“Do you hate me for this?”

She shakes her head at her.

“Of course not. But - .”

“Should I hate myself? For giving into the pain? For letting her use me to get to you?”

“It’s not the same.” She says dully, tears her eyes away from the scars to look Raven in the eye. “She took full control of you. She had to, because you fought her. I should’ve -” She sighs heavily and crosses her arms in front of her. “I should’ve been stronger.”

Raven shakes her head.

“You were strong enough to make sure that bitch was never going to use people the way she used ever again. You helped kill her.” She raises her hands to stave off Abby’s rebuttal. “What happened with us - it’s the same thing, Abby. She used me against you. Then she used you against Kane. The only real difference between us is that she’s still controlling how you live your life. And you’re letting her.”

Her face burns in anger and disbelief and hurt and shame. She finds herself focusing on the lines that crisscross her palms. 

Raven’s face softens. She reaches out and squeezes her hand gently. 

“Abby. She’s taken so much from all of us, already. Just…don’t let her take this from you, too, ok?” 

* * *

“Do you love him?”

The question startles her, sets panic loose in her veins even though she’s spent countless hours roleplaying this exact conversation with Clarke in her mind.

She wants to say it’s a difficult question. Wants to say she doesn’t know. Wants to pretend that, for once, sleep has managed to find her in the early hours of the night.

She does none of these things, though; they require a dishonesty that she’s sworn never to inflict on Clarke again.

She’s trying to formulate a response when Clarke breathes out a phrase that robs her of voice for a moment.

“He loves you.”

She doesn’t try to deny it, this time. Only sighs, then speaks the most honest truth that isn’t an answer.

“I’m not sure if I deserve that.”

She feels Clarke shift in the bed to face her, turns her head so that their eyes meet across the pillow.

They don’t say anything for a long while. She finds herself studying Clarke’s face, looking for the child who once reached for her at the end of a bad dream. Realizes that Clarke hasn’t been that child since two wars and 300 irradiated souls ago.

“He floated dad,” Clarke finally says.

She nods.

Clarke takes a deep breath, continues on.

“He kept me in solitary confinement for a year. He took the air out of 300 people’s lungs. He shocklashed you when you got to the ground.”

She finds no rebuttal to her words because there is none. Can only offer words that are neither a defense nor an excuse - just a truth that she knows with every single, wasted part of her:

“He’s a good man, Clarke.”

Clarke nods, sincerity and love glistening in her eyes.

“I know, mom.” She reaches out to brush the hair back from Abby’s face. “There’s blood on all our hands. We all have to live with what we’ve done to ourselves. And to the people that we love.” She wipes a tear as it tracks it way down Abby’s cheek. “But…I think…we don’t have to do it alone.” She inhales and fixes Abby with a resolute stare. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

She closes her eyes and takes in a shuddering breath. Feels Clarke slowly run her hands through her hair, soothing her in a gentle reversal of roles. 

“Maybe love isn’t about deserving,” Clarke breathes out, her voice tender and soft. “Maybe that’s the whole point.”

* * *

One night, she wanders into the cafeteria to find him staring into a steaming cup of tea. She almost steps back out again, but finds herself walking towards him instead when she sees the exhausted bent to his shoulders, the purpling circles underneath his eyes.

He looks up at her and smiles as she sits across from him.

They’re quiet for a moment, then -

“Nightmare?”

He nods; takes a deep breath and let’s it out again carefully.

“My worst nightmares are always about you.”

There’s nothing malicious in his tone, but she feels swallowed up by grief anyway. She clenches her jaw and nods. Wonders if she manages to keep the anguish clear from the lines of her face.

“I know.”

He tilts his head in confusion. She lays her hands in front of her on the table, twists her fingers together tightly.

“There was a night, once. On the way back to Arkadia.”

“I remember.”

She nods. Finds that she suddenly can’t meet his eyes.

“Before I woke you up. You. You kept pleading with me to wake up.”

Silence settles between them.

“Abby.”

She looks up; finds him gazing at her with an open tenderness that feels wholly undeserved.

“That night. I…” He exhales forcibly. She feels her stomach churn. “I did dream about you. But not…not about what happened. Before, I mean. In Polis.”

She furrows her brows and watches as his face twists into sorrow.

“I dreamed that you…that you were gone. That I couldn’t save you.”

The air grows still between them.

“ _That’s_ what my worst nightmares are about,” he finishes quietly. “Losing you.”

He pauses then; swallows back the rest of the sentence.

She sees it anyway. It’s written in every fearful line on his face.

_Have I already?_

She thinks back to Raven’s admonition, to Clarke’s hushed words. Isn’t quite sure she knows how she’ll forgive herself or feel deserving or how to come back from it all.  

She only knows this: he deserves her attempt, at least.

So she swallows forcefully.

Then -

Inches her hand across the table; carefully rests it on top of his.

“You haven’t, Marcus.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Fink's "Looking too Closely"


End file.
